Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

He tensed and braced himself for attack despite the dulcet tones of the pale man; figuring they were attempting to throw him off-guard before launching an assault, but he would be ready. It was a split-second, if that. The wolf went for his throat and Firefly rumbled a deep warning that thrilled him almost as much as the closing proximity of the ghost but he couldn't move, struck by a fearful paralysis as the stranger crowded him and — yes, he went for his throat, but not in the way Firefly anticipated. Not with violence, but tenderness. He opens his mouth but can't form words as he is overwhelmed, confused, conflicted — waves of feeling that spread like wildfire with each touch, traveling, consuming.

He braces against the sand and shifts, tries to back up, to hip-check against the man's face as it trails from his spine to his hip; strides sideways as the man asks his alluring question. Firefly falters when another tremble creeps down his spine and through his haunch, and oh how he wants but its not right, none of this is right. But maybe it didn't have to be. He'd done this enough times to know the feeling of lust inside of his body, burning through him, but this was so much more intense. 

Do you want to feel me? The ghost croons, and Firefly recoils further, but he staggers and feels his limbs give out. He isn't strong enough to protest and with a look over his shoulder to the lusting poltergeist, cannot fathom language—his eyes are aflame with so much hunger and he doesn't know what to do with it.